Brace Myself
The ligament yelped when the first tear appeared in fall 2015.
My knee gave out from under me as my left foot planted hard. I bit my lip, tears forming as the gray floor welcomed my body. A hitch kick was an easy dance move—one knee bent in the air as the other kicks above your head—especially for someone who was sixteen.
A chorus of concerned voices from my fellow dancers echoed in the studio. I wiped the tears before they could fall. My instructor, Rebecca, approached me immediately. She helped me to the wooden bench where we elevated my leg with an ice pack from the mini fridge. My friends continued various leaps and chaîné turns as I watched. Some of their eyes drifted toward my knee, but I waved everyone off.
Wetness seeped through the paper towel onto my leggings. The cool relief was temporary. The throbbing all over my knee and my chest wasn’t going away. I had fallen so many times, but I didn’t want to laugh as I usually did. I didn’t think I could. This wasn’t like the other times I’d hit the hardwood, mats, or even the mirror. I usually didn’t feel any pain, or it went away when the impact faded. This time, the pain wasn’t going away.
When my mom arrived, I moved to the lobby benches. Rebecca’s sister and fellow instructor, Danielle, moved my knee gently. She was studying to be a physical therapist.
“Keep icing it every few hours. A brace will help, but I don’t know if something is torn. If it doesn’t stop hurting in a few weeks, you should go to the doctor,” Danielle said.
My mom and I nodded. I just wanted to get out of there. The recital wasn’t until June of next year, but I was in one of the dance breaks in my school’s production of “The Wedding Singer” in November, and Hell week was approaching. Would I be able to dance?
I followed all Danielle’s instructions. I wore a brace around school and during musical rehearsals. I skipped all my dance classes—jazz, acro, and hip hop. The pain got better, but it wasn’t gone.
A few days before Hell week, I visited one of my favorite English teachers with tears in my eyes and a hard choice to make about the dance break.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said after I explained the pain.
“You don’t want to jeopardize the musical. You also don’t want to hurt yourself further,” Mrs. Blum said.
Mrs. Blum handed me a tissue for the tears that fell. I knew she was right, but I pushed through the week of long rehearsals and the performances until closing night.
Under the hot lights of the stage, I smiled. Even if the audience could see the black brace under my skin color tights, they couldn’t see my pain. I fell out of my double one of the nights. But I finished the show.
The pain went away after I rested for a couple of weeks. I danced four numbers each recital until I graduated from high school. I did hundreds of handsprings and walkovers. My hitch kicks landed. I excitedly joined a dance club freshman year of college. Per club rules, I performed once during each semester show.
The ligament began to weep as the tear grew over the next few years.
I would injure the same knee three more times. I fell out of a back walkover into a cartwheel. My knee bent funny when I jokingly hung off a metal ladder. I tripped and slammed my knee on carpeted stairs. I had my usual recovery routine down to science—ice, brace, and rest a few weeks. My knee always healed. In my junior year of college, I joined a different dance club that gave me the freedom to dance multiple dance styles. I felt like I was the dancer I used to be. Unfortunately, COVID cancelled our Spring 2020 showcase, the first one I would have performed with my new club. We were all happy to return in the fall and perform again even with restrictions.
The ligament sobbed when it disappeared in spring 2021.
My knee finally gave out a couple of months before my college senior showcase. My mask hid my grimace as my knee twisted funny. Pain shot through the front of my knee, sharpening when I tried to bend it. I hopped off the dance floor and collapsed into a chair. The stares from the other dancers pierced my knee like the first time. I got a ride home from my best friend, Chey, when I knew I couldn’t walk back. Brace. Ice. Repeat.
I had no one to blame but myself. I landed the deathblow. But what could be worse than one last performance? I wanted to dance. My mom warned me. My friends said it was my choice. My fellow dancers advised against it. I didn’t want to end college without one last dance.
I performed in my first and only showcase with my new dance club a couple of months later. I was only allowed in the senior dance and the finale. All the other dances I’d learned throughout the year were useless.
I didn’t have to worry about smiling this time. The mask covered my face. I didn’t care about the pain in my knee. I had to say goodbye. I kneeled on the stage with my fellow seniors, shifting my weight to my good knee. The pain was always worse when it was bent. My kneecap throbbed. Cheers filled the auditorium when the music finished. I limped off the stage and sat until the finale, where I danced through the pain one more time.
The pain subsided when I stopped dancing. I had been worried about finding dance classes after college, but it felt like something was missing in my knee. Dancing wasn’t possible; I was numb.
I graduated in May and moved back to my childhood home. I finished my summer publishing course, then booked an appointment with an orthopedist. Dr. Krochak had completed my brother’s ACL and double meniscus repair a few years prior, so I knew he was good.
The MRI banged and whirred with the pop music in my headphones. My upper body tensed, but my knee was strapped tightly inside the tunnel. The MRI results mattered for logistics, but I knew my ACL was done. It was the most common knee injury for dancers; I didn’t think it would be anything else.
Dr. Krochak held up my results a week later. If a doctor could be impressed, I’d imagine he would have been.
“Your ACL is a ligament that’s shaped like an X. You’re completely missing one line in the X. It’s possible that it had torn when you first hurt it in high school and further deteriorated every time you re-injured yourself. After surgery, you’re going to be looking at about nine months to a year of rehab.”
The surgery was scheduled for August. The ugly blue gown was itchy. I counted back from one hundred and don’t remember where I stopped. The hours after I woke up were a blur. Nausea was an unexpected side effect of the anesthesia. But there was no more pain. No more numbness. Maybe it was the pain meds, but I felt relief.
I followed a new routine as I began to heal my new ACL. After a day, I walked on crutches with my giant brace. I iced again. I strapped my leg up to a machine that stretched my knee out. A couple of weeks later I ditched the crutches. About a month after the surgery, I got rid of the brace. I attended physical therapy twice a week. I went to my six-month check-up feeling good, but Dr. Krochak was concerned.
My face fell when I learned I was behind where I should have been. My knee was too weak. Shouldn’t a therapist know the proper checkpoints for ACL rehab? Why wasn’t he meeting them? I didn’t care to get answers. I switched therapists, but the setback caused many issues. Insurance sucked. At night in my bed, I cried watching old dance videos.
A year after surgery, I was finally cleared from physical therapy. The ligament may have been repaired, but it still felt like a piece of myself was missing. There were no adult dance classes nearby that wouldn’t require me to take the train to the city. I taught myself silly TikTok dances that gave me thirty seconds of happiness. Zumba was fun; I’d also been doing it since I was a teenager. But none of this was the same as dancing.
In August 2024, Rebecca opened her own dance studio. Just like when I was a teenager, my mom drove me for my first dance class in over three years. I was also secretly glad for the support. I didn’t do jazz funk often. My body didn’t feel like my own as Rebecca taught a quick combination. My left leg still felt weaker than my right. I was a bit behind the music with each step. I pursed my lips and avoided Rebecca’s eyes. I wasn’t the same dancer I had been.
I wiped the tears from my eyes when I got back in our car. I let my mom comfort me like I was still a child. I knew I wouldn’t be back. The class didn’t fit in my new adult job schedule. It was too far. No one else signed up. But those were excuses. I was too scared to try.
Jazz funk didn’t matter because four months later right before the New Year, I had another knee surgery to remove a floating piece of cartilage. After three months of rehab and another subpar therapist, both of my knees were messed up. Dr. Krochak confirmed the cartilage in both knees were just worn out from years of dance. Strengthening exercises and preventative icing would help. Surgery was a last resort.
I found a new therapist who offered one-on-one sessions.
“I’ve never ran in PT.” I told my PT, Matt. Both my knees twinged. I could barely catch my breath. “I’m sorry. I need a minute.”
“You’ve never ran in therapy? That’s not normal,” he said. “And never apologize. Your body will get back to where it was.” Matt was the only therapist I could tell meant it. “Do you want to keep going or does the pain hurt too much?
“I can do it.”
Twice a week, I did one-on-one sessions with Matt. I jogged. My single-legged hops got higher. The weights for strength training increased. I also followed my home exercise program. My thighs burned with each squat or lunge, but it felt good.
Matt finally cleared me in the summer. That fall, four and a half years after I thought I’d danced for the last time, I signed up for a dance class. A new studio had opened closer to me. Studio One aimed to reconnect adults with their love of dance. It sounded perfect, but my stomach still churned.
I took my place on the floor, staring at the mirror in front of me. Jazz wouldn’t have been my first choice—I always preferred hip hop—but I went with a friend. Our instructor led stretches and an ab workout. We lined up for across-the-floor warm-ups. Dancers who clearly knew the instructor did beautiful double pirouettes, but my single didn’t look that bad. The combination was awkward on my body, but the knee cooperated.
When it fit in my schedule, I finally signed up for a hip hop class. My body didn’t move the way it did when I was sixteen or even twenty-two, but as I kept moving, the negative thoughts floated away. When I signed up for my second hip hop class, I was better than the first time.
The ligament smiled.
Rebecca Williamson is an assistant literary agent and foreign rights manager. She writes across many genres and mediums such as articles, lists, essays, short stories, and novels. She’s been published by Ranker, FAMILY Magazine, and The Masters Review, among others. She is a graduate of SUNY Geneseo and the Columbia Publishing Course. When she is not editing, writing, or reading her TBR pile, she spends her free time dancing and hanging with family and friends.